


*Dreams of Emeralds*

by alyxpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Wizard of Oz & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Crossover, Emerald City, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, M/M, Merry Land of Oz, Munchkins, men kissing, possibly the Tardis, the yellow brick road
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The answer to the four questions: why, why, why, why? …because I have lost my fracking mind! I have no one to blame but the voices of my muses who whisper to me in the dark of the night! Alas do not despair, I promise the Johnlock will be there!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction to the Insanity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lobstergirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/gifts).



> Don't be afraid to guess! Gifted to lobstergirl because she is the awesomest beta evah!  
> P.S. I promise Chapter One is the only terrible poetry you shall have to read :)

_A girl at heart, invisible to most_  
 _Stuck paying homage to not-quite-a-ghost._  
  
 _There is one who is blond with an open face;_  
 _Another who is tall, and thin, with a facade that is cold like tin._  
  
 _A man with a silver mane, weathered countenance... fears where it all ends._  
 _There is someone who is more than a brother, an overseer of sorts: a magicker without a court._  
  
 _A Lady, so good and kind, too much to pass;_  
 _When you figure it out, go to the head of the class._  
  
 _These are our heroes,_  
 _A little dog, too._  
  
 _They will see through the night_  
 _Part the darkness in two._  
  
 _United they stand_  
 _Divided, the evil falls._  
  
 _One wants revenge and passes it on_  
 _To the lady that everyone calls on._  
  
 _Let's go and revisit_  
 _A place we have all been-_  
 _We will shake it up this time_  
 _By including our five favorite men._

  
_The ladies, too--one is the star._  
 _When you finally discover it..._  
 _You will see far..._

_Over the arched lights from a thousand tiny crystal droplets!  
_

_~Alyxpoe  
_


	2. Perchance to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you guess?

_To sleep, perchance to dream. --Shakespeare_

* * *

 

It is the sight of the man with the gun leveled in her direction as he is bursting through the morgue doors that makes her realize that for as much death and destruction she sees on a daily basis she is so very sadly unprepared for something like this. The man is huge, bending his head down to step through the doors. They make a forlorn _flump_ noise as they smack hard against the cement wall and rock that way for a few frozen seconds before the gun goes off. Molly Hooper has absolutely nowhere to go and even less time to react; everything seems to slow down so that she is viewing it as one of the fight scenes from that movie about the guy who finds out that the world is a giant computer and he is the chosen one. It is quite amazing that she has this much time to even consider what is about to happen.

Molly sees the projectile as it twists and turns on its path towards her as if the very air itself has been turned into semi-frozen jelly. Numbly she recognizes that it is probably going to hit her square in the forehead. She feels bad for whoever gets stuck cleaning up _that_ mess. Watching closely she starts to feel her legs give way and a heavy weight is pressing down on her from the side. She numbly begins to remember the names of all the blood vessels in that part of her body…

Oh.

Someone has pushed her down or maybe this is what being shot feels like. There are voices shouting, the meaningless sounds ricocheting off the white walls and steel counters that line the room. Molly sees everything but soon it is all lost in a blur of dark curls, a slash of worried blue and then green and she is aware of a falling sensation. For a few seconds or an hour she wonders how close she was to the tray of sterilized utensils she had been using a short time ago. She is almost unconscious at this point and the shock of her body smacking into the polished tiles does not even register in her mind: a strange disconnect seems to be taking place. There is a loud ‘bang’ and right on its heels is the sensation of falling some more and then…nothing. 

*

When Molly comes to, the first thing she notices is that she is on the ground. She looks about herself, taking in the brightness of the land that appears to be some type of farming village; so bright that it could almost be described as “cartoonish.” Behind her is a large steel frame that she quickly ignores. In front of her stands a diminutive but quite rotund little man in a dark blue uniform. His waist coat is navy blue, as are his trousers. The button-down shirt that he wears underneath is bright yellow, the color clashing with the double row of polished buttons that adorn the coat. At the end of his sleeves are gold hash marks that remind Molly of an airline’s captain’s bars. The little man is beaming at her with flashing white teeth that set off his ruddy complexion. Atop his head is a single auburn curl, the rest of his scalp is bald and shiny as if he just stepped from the shower. To complete the ensemble, he is wearing tall dark blue boots that are topped with a neat yellow cuff to match his shirt.

Molly giggles. “What a dashing little fellow!” She exclaims. “Sorry.” She mutters, covering her mouth with her hands.

“Ah, I thank you for your compliment, ma’am," he says in a squeaky tenor.

The little man stops in front of her and holds out a hand. She takes it readily and he helps her to her feet.

Molly is a bit unsteady, even though the world at large is no longer spinning. It takes a moment until she finally feels like she can walk. The little man has not let go of her hand; it seems to anchor her. She steps away from the place where she was sitting and the strangest thought crosses her mind. “Excuse me, little man, can you tell me where I am and what I am doing here?”

“Ah, now that is a very good question.” He tightens his grip on her hand. “I will answer you happily and with extra relish if you could please just come along with me away from this place.” Molly notes that he seems to be nervous. Perhaps it is a little scary to be confronted with a person who simply _materialized_ near you without proper warning first.

_Where in the world did that come from?_

The little man watches her closely with his head tilted to one side, his single auburn curl flopping over his eyebrow. His expression is one of fear and uncertainty. Molly feels as if she can trust him. “Alright. Yes.” She takes his hand in her own when he offers it and lets him lead her along.

The uniformed man leads her straight up a pathway made of flat bright blue rocks to a bright yellow cottage. From his pocket, produces the tiniest brass key that Molly has ever seen and fits it into the lock just over the yellow doorknob of the blue door. On the door is a number stenciled in white: '4S' it says. They duck into an orderly sitting room and Molly has to tip her head down a bit to keep from braining herself on the top of the doorway.

“Please have a seat, Miss…” The man gestures towards a bright green undersized sofa. Molly sits as best she is able and demurely tugs down her skirt without paying it much attention.

For a moment, Molly forgets to answer the man who she is fairly certain at this point is someone important in this town; after all, he is wearing a uniform. She looks down at the blue and white gingham skirt she is wearing without remembering ever even owning something similar, let alone putting it on. She discovers that she has acquired a soft blue pullover shirt with a rounded neckline. Molly pats at her neck and is thankful that her mother’s platinum locket still hangs there. She crosses her legs carefully so as not to kick the clear-topped table in front of the sofa and just happens to glance down and notice the worn trainers that adorn her feet. Molly sighs.

At least she had the sense enough to put on decent shoes this morning, even with this ridiculous outfit. She is very glad that a certain ‘consulting detective’ rarely pays attention to what she has on underneath her lab coat anymore, what with the all masculine blonde-haired-one-man-ego boosting-sidekick he can no longer keep his eyes off of; her thoughts are derailed when the small man finally resorts to shouting to get her attention.

“Miss? Miss, are you alright? Your face seems to have gotten a bit wet.” Molly watches as a small fine-boned hand reaches up to her cheek and wipes away a tear. She smiles and hopes that he will not ask any questions because she has a whole bunch of her own.

“My name is Molly.” She tries valiantly not to appear to be so distressed.

The little man steps back, continuing to regard her carefully. He seems to come to some sort of agreement with himself and holds out his hand again, this time offering a handshake. “I am called Mikford.” He beams at her.

“Well, Mister Mikford, it is nice to meet you.”

“Thank you, young lady, thank you. I bet you now have some questions. Let me start by saying I am Mayor Mikford of the Munchkins and our quaint town is known as Orville.”

Molly really has no idea what a Munchkin is and she is entirely too shy and way beyond too p.c. to ask. She smiles. Mikford gives a little nod and scoots away, his boot soles thumping lightly on the wooden floors as he walks. In a moment he returns with a bright green tray covered with assorted fixings for tea. He sets the tray down on the little clear glass table and soon she has a hot cuppa in her hand. Mikford’s tea is phenomenal, though it does make her a little homesick.

“Mikford, could I please ask of you, if you don’t mind, sir, where exactly is Orville?”

“Orville is in County Stamford.” Mikford answers before sipping at his own cup.

“OK. That is good. County Stamford is, where, exactly?” Molly shuffles her feet again, trying for a comfortable position on the tiny piece of furniture. She feels like she is having a tea party at her twin nieces’ preschool class.  

Mikford looks a little confused for a few seconds. “Oh, I see, I understand, I really do. Could it be that are a stranger to these parts?”

“Indeed, sir, I am. I am actually even more confused as to how I even arrived here.”

“Well, that bears a bit more consideration, my dear.” Mikford gently sets his cup down and walks over to the big window near the front door. He strides back and forth for a little while with his hands clasped behind his back. “I need to consult someone first, though I think it may be reasonable to tell you where you may have, eh, landed, for want of a better word.”

“Yes, Mister Mikford. That would be very considerate of you. Thank you.”

“Alright then, young lady, let me tell you, but you must understand it has been a great many years since I last had to explain this to anyone not native to our world. There is a great lady-witch that I must discuss this matter with at once. I will be leaving you for a bit, so please make yourself at home.” With that, the Munchkin Mayor grabs a blue and yellow top hat from a red hat rack near the door and is gone in a flash.

“Mister Mikford, wait!” Molly calls out and rushes to follow him, though when she steps out into the yard, she discovered an entire crowd of the small people-no, munchkins, had gathered. They're all wearing clothing made of bright colors, some with patches on them, some with boots and some are barefoot. All of the munchkins were gazing up at her as if she had done them some great service.

“Hello?” She asks them, her voice a mere whisper. 

Molly turns around in a small circle as the crowd seems to close on her from all sides until she is effectively standing in the center of an even larger circle. She is beginning to worry about what is really happening here because the little people are not talking; only staring at her; _they have stars in their eyes_. Without warning, however, the silence is broken by a large popping sound and an older woman with a neat grey bun on the back of her head materializes in the circle next to her.

“Well, now, my dear. It is lovely to see you on such a fine afternoon.” The woman says with a chuckle as Molly’s eyes follow the long stick in her hand that can only be termed a ‘wand.’ As the woman swishes it upward, tiny gold sparks fly from the tip.

Molly takes in the woman’s long, flowing gown of the softest rose, her steel grey hair and finally her laughing cerulean eyes. She feels compelled to curtsy.

“Hello.” She finally manages to choke out in a harsh whisper.

“Hello! Don’t be bashful, child, I am here for you. Mikford there thought you might need some help.” She raises her wand in the direction of the Mayor who seems so happy he will burst. His hat wobbles on his bald head as he waves animatedly at Molly as if they weren't three feet away from one another.

“Yes, I do. I woke up here after _something_ happened but I am entirely unsure and now I am here alone and I can’t seem to find out where I am and I apologize but I did not catch your name.” Molly finishes, feeling slightly out of breath. 

The gown clad woman gives Molly a soft smile that lights her eyes up like fireworks.

“Yes, my dear, my name is Glinda Hudson. You may call me Glinda, or Hudson or the Good Witch of the North, but please, I only ask that you do not call me late for supper.” The woman grins at her again, politely ignoring Molly’s messy blathering. The munchkins all laugh appreciatively.

Molly really wants to snap her jaw shut, though the thing seems to have stopped working altogether. “Yes, ma’am.” She squeaks.

“And you are?” Glinda points at Molly with her wand. Molly steps back so fast she almost falls to the ground on top of several munchkins who are desperately attempting to flee. They end up helping her back into the circle, however, by simply giving her a good shove in that direction; all five of them.

“Molly Hooper. Please call me Molly.”

There is another ripple of laughter through the crowd. Glinda raises her arms to request silence. “Welcome, please, munchkins of Orville, Molly Hooper!” The applause is enthusiastic for a group meeting a stranger. Molly wonders how they treat people that they know well.

“Alright, then, settle a bit. You seem to have more questions, child.” The Good Witch turns back to her.

“Where am I?” Molly asks.

“My dear, did not our Mayor inform you of this? You are standing in the Land of Oz.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6 May 2014: Editing, editing, editing. Time to dust this thing off :)


	3. Oz Without A Map

“What is Oz?” Molly hopes she does not look too much like an idiot in front of this wonderful woman with the kind and honest face.

“Oz is our home, child. Look around you and you will see the beauty of it all.” Glinda spreads her arms wide to show Molly that she really means what she says.

Molly turns in a small circle to get a better look at the landscape that Glinda indicates, her skirt billowing out softly around her legs and finally settling just above her knees when she stops. Several of the munchkins from the crowd around her clap their hands and do a little jig on the spot. This only serves to confuse Molly even more.

“Why are they looking at me that way?” It is Molly’s turn to use four fingers to point in the general direction of the smiling munchkins; she would not point with just her index finger, her mum had taught her that was rude.

Glinda’s answer to Molly’s question is simply a bubbly laugh.

“Oh, my girl, you don’t even know what you’ve done!” With that, the good witch takes Molly by the hand and leads her through the crowd of munchkins. As they pass, the munchkins nod and bow and curtsy to Molly. Molly smiles at them; her confusion seems much less troubling to the small people than it is to her so she decides to let it go for a while. After a few moments, it is apparent that Glinda is taking her right back to where she began this strange journey.

When they arrive at what turns out to be a rather large clearing in the trees, Molly is surprised to find that she barely remembers it. She certainly has no recollection of the journey, at any rate. She walks a little farther into the clearing, Glinda and several of the munchkins, including the Mayor, on her heels.

“I don’t remember that.” This time Molly does actually point at what appears to be smashed up steel frame. It could as easily be a wrecked spaceship as it could be any number of flying craft. Something nags at her in the back of her mind. She ignores it completely, not feeling like she can deal with it at present.

“I would not expect you to, child. You had a nasty bump when you landed.” Glinda steps around the Mayor and another munchkin man who is conversing softly with their heads together and once again grasps Molly’s hand. “Look here.” Glinda bends down on her knees a little, giving a soft grunt under her breath with the action. Molly stops and stares at the sight before her.

From under the center of the twisted hulk of the _thing_ a pair of very long legs clad in green and black striped leggings pokes out. The legs end in a pair of rather tall, silver, military-looking boots with very thick soles and low walking heels. Now Molly is more confounded than she was earlier. When it all catches up with her, the fact that apparently she has killed some type of human being upon landing in this strange place, she gasps loudly and covers her mouth with both hands.

“I…I am so sorry. I didn’t know!” She exclaims with another gasp and finds herself dangerously close to tears.

Glinda puts a comforting arm around Molly’s shoulders. “It is quite alright dear. You see, that was the Wicked Witch of the East. When your transportation landed on her, you set all the people of Orville free! The Wicked Witch has held them in bonds of slavery for over ten generations. With one fell swoop, you became their liberator!”

That sure explained all the smiling and bouncing about. “Wow.” Molly’s brain feels like it is about to short out. “I did that?”

“Yes, child, you did. Now would you please allow them to show you a little hospitality in return for your good deed?” With that, Glinda pokes her magic wand in the direction of the silver boots. At once they are on Molly’s feet and she is holding her old ratty trainers in her hand.

She watches, transfixed, as the legs began to creak and grind and finally grotesquely roll up underneath the twisted metal until they can be seen no more.

“You see!” Glinda spins around a little, drawing Molly in her wake. “All’s well that ends well, and you have a nice new set of footwear for your efforts!” Molly shakes her head and finally decides that if this is some sort of hallucination, at least it seems mostly harmless. She follows the good witch back to the center of town with Mikford bouncing and talking to her the entire time.

Just in the short time that they have been gone, the Munchkins have set up an outdoor shindig that nothing Molly has ever experienced can compare to. There are brightly colored paper lanterns hanging from the trees and the eaves of the houses, long tables are covered with similarly bright cloths and practically overloaded with foodstuffs. The offerings are just about as colorful as everything else. Molly picks up what seems like a bright blue apple and bites into it warily. Realizing that it is very sweet and very much non-toxic, she smiles at the three ladies who have stopped on the other side of the table as if to observe her. They giggle with glee and tug at her arm until she follows them to a wooden dance floor.

When the Munchkin band begins playing, Molly’s spirits are lifted. She dances, eats, drinks and dances some more. Darkness begins to fall until the only lights left in the square are the lanterns. Some of the older men have sat several chairs up near the food tables and are happily smoking bright red clay pipes. A slightly pink fog surrounds their little cluster.

All things considered, it turns out to be a good day and Molly retires in Mikford’s guest room with a full belly and happy thoughts, but there is still some strange miniscule detail bouncing about in the back of her mind that she cannot quite put a finger on. When sleep overtakes her, it is all but forgotten.

*

The Mayor’s house is absolutely silent the next morning when Molly reaches out and gently grasps awareness, allowing it to pull her upward as if she is swimming for the surface of a very deep pond. Her mind, like the shallows, is murky and she is having trouble remembering why the furniture around her is unfamiliar and seems so small. She peers down at herself and she is wearing a funny silky blue nightgown that is most certainly something she does not own, as the hem ends at mid-thigh. Molly pulls the thick sapphire duvet back farther in order to swing her legs out from underneath it. She glances about the room and quickly spys a small stack of folded clothing sitting on a tiny wicker chair in front of a petite yellow vanity, the tall silver boots gleaming proudly in the floor next to it.

The sight of the rather loud footwear brings the memories rushing back, this time the onslaught is brief and by no means overwhelming. If anything, it appeals to her slight, and usually hidden, need for adventure. Something exciting is happening here and she is not afraid to face it, for whatever it is worth in the long run. Molly finds a small washroom then dresses in the unfamiliar clothing quickly. Remembering the Munchkins from yesterday, however, she has to admit that the outfit is rather more understated than what seems to be dictated by their current fashion.

There is a soft pair of indigo jeans and a nicely-cut blue-and-white checked one-pocket blouse, which she will of course wear over deep royal blue undergarments. Molly has to admit to be a wee bit embarrassed about that fact, but she did meet a _witch_ yesterday, after all…and never mind the one she killed with whatever that thing was that brought her here in the first place. Oddly, a picture of an old-fashioned police call box pops into her mind as she finger-combs her brown hair and pulls it up into a ponytail using one of the bands left out on the tiny vanity.

Finally, she puts on a pair of bright purple socks and the silver boots, marveling at how well they fit; almost as if they were made for her. Molly snickers a little to herself, thinking that maybe her bespoke footwear could rival a certain someone’s…

Molly’s thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come in!” She calls then chastises herself because her voice sounds so eager.

A Munchkin lady opens the door and drops into a deep curtsy upon spying Molly still sitting in the wicker chair. “Good morning, Miss Hooper.  I do so expect that you slept well?”

Molly remembers to shut her mouth when the graceful lady stands back up. She is wearing an emerald tunic and what must surely be black velvet leggings. Her boots are the same as the Mayor’s, except the top cuff is green to match her shirt. The woman’s hair is coal black, her sparkling eyes the blue of a clear winter’s sky. The Munchkin glides towards Molly with a hand outstretched in greeting.

Molly grasps the offered hand warmly.

“I am Lisford, Mikford’s beloved. We are glad to welcome you into our home after what you have done for our people, Miss Hooper. Are you in need of anything at the moment?” Lisford’s eyes rake over Molly, taking in the clothing. “I see that we guessed appropriately for your outfit. Is it to your satisfaction?”

“Yes! Yes it is!” Molly’s answer comes out in a huff of breath. She can feel the heat of a blush spreading across her cheeks.

“Oh, such a pretty child!” Lisford exclaims as she gently pats Molly’s cheek. She giggles joyously. “You have done so much good for us and as much as I would love to have you as a guest for a longer time, I do believe Glinda wants to meet you this morning. Would that be acceptable or shall I inform her that you need more rest?”

“That would be just fine, um, Lisford. Thank you.”

Lisford simply nods and Molly follows her from the room. In no time at all, they are back in the square which today is notably absent of a crowd of happy Munchkins. This time it is Glinda alone and she graces Molly with a warm smile as the young woman greets her.

“Good Morning!”

“Hello, Molly, I trust you slept well? Lisford is so disappointed that you will not be staying much longer, though perhaps someday you will be able to return for a visit.”

“I would like that very much.” Molly says. “Why do I need to leave, though? This is such a nice little town…”

“My dear, there are some things that even I cannot predict with any regularity. Things are happening all over Oz that are changing the current status quo of many of its inhabitants.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, Molly, perhaps you do not, yet. Perhaps you never will, though I know that is really not the case at all. Answer one question for me, please if you would be so kind.”

“Absolutely.”

“In this moment, could you please tell me what is your most deepest heart’s desire?”

Molly had to think about that for a few moments. She is really enjoying her time here, though she knows that she does not really belong.  “I want to go home.” She answers the good witch.

“I thought so. Though the road ahead will be filled with perils and it may be a long journey, our country is mostly pleasant but sometimes you may find it dark and terrible. I am going to send you home and I will use magic as well as make sure that you will never be alone.*” Glinda waves her wand around as she speaks and tiny flowers pour from the end of it to fall to the ground and drift about in lazy circles as if a gentle breeze is present in the still air of the morning.

“How will I know when I am there?” Molly asks, now feeling a bit of damp trepidation attempting to put out the spark of her explorer’s joy.

“You will know. You will go towards the Emerald City and look for the Great Wizard. Tell him your story and ask for assistance.” Glinda pauses as if she is listening to something. “I have to go.” Her entire form shimmers and begins to glow.

“Wait!” Molly calls. “How do I get there?” She is pretty sure that there is no way she is going to get any GPS signals out here. Of course, that would only work if she still had her mobile phone in her pocket, anyway. It seems to be just as missing as she is.

“Ah!” Glinda’s form seems to darken a little and she is surrounded by a bright white aura. Molly notices that the woman’s feet are no longer touching the ground simply because her legs appear to end just below the knees. “The road to the city of Emeralds is paved with yellow brick, so you cannot miss it.*” With a sound like a bubble popping, Glinda is gone and Molly finds herself all alone in the middle of Orville’s big empty square.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. * denotes a line either paraphrased or grabbed directly from the text of the Wizard of Oz, ©1900 by Frank Baum. No disrespect intended.


	4. Timid Hedgehogs Don't Scare Crows

Molly is pulled out of her reverie by a rather teeny Munchkin girl tugging at the tail of her shirt. The child is clad in a jumper dress made of a rather cacophonous mix of materials and colors: the effect is quite dazzling to the eye. Molly steps back and looks down at the girl, noting her blonde hair and bright blue irises. If Molly had to give her best guess, she would say the girl is about six years old, but who knows with the Munchkins?

“Yes, Muppet?” Molly asks as she bends down to speak with the child.

The little girl smiles a bright, healthy smile and holds up a tiny white basket. “Miss Molly, I has a present for you.” Inside the basket is a slightly quivering lump covered by a bright orange calico printed square of material. Molly is curious so she reaches out with a tentative hand.

“Go ahead.” The girl says as she hands her the basket.

Molly gently uncovers what appears to be a strange wheaten ball of quivering, well, quills. After a moment, the ball flips over and a pair of shiny brown eyes peer over the edge of the basket at her. The little animal’s long nose sniffs at the hand she holds up and it slowly makes its way out of the basket on stubby legs and into her palm. Molly has never held a hedgehog before, so she is a bit unsure of how to handle the deceptively delicate-looking animal.

“That is Toby. He wants to go wiff you.” The little girl tells Molly in an earnest voice.

“I’m not sure…” Molly peers closer at the strange animal who has curled up in her hand doing its impression of a softly squeaking pin cushion.

“He likes you, Miss Molly. Take him, please!” The tiny Munchkin is adamant. “He needs to see the Wizard, just like you!” With a giggle, the girl spins about on bare feet and dashes away. Molly watches her disappear down the short main street then carefully raises the critter up to her face.

“Well, Toby, at least I won’t be so alone on this trip. Shall we?” Molly takes a tentative step forward and the bricks under her feet light up. She is unable to stop the grin from her face, though she is quite surprised at the happy little squeak from the animal in her palm who is now clinging to the side of her hand with miniscule, but quite sharp, claws. “Oh! I bet you would rather ride in your basket!” Her exclamation is met with another short squeak. She places Toby back inside and he seems to stand up on his hind legs in order to look out over the side of the basket. She nods, thinking that he looks absolutely content and proceeds to follow the yellow road out of town.

*

In the middle of the afternoon, Molly starts searching for a spot to rest for a while. She has had nothing to eat since breakfast and she wonders if Toby needs anything in particular. She decides to stop at a rather shady spot along the road and has just settled down on the shoulder of the strange brick street when Toby squeaks loudly and clambers out of the basket. His short legs are surprisingly fast as he scurries into what looks to be a corn field straight across the road. She waits for a moment to see if the little animal will return, but some very loud and very irritated squeaks carry to her ears and a then a strange grunt makes her jump up and follow where the hedgehog has gone, the white basket on her wrist swinging in time to her feet as she races across the path.

“Toby!” Molly calls out as she parts the corn stalks in front of her. They reach towards the sky easily a foot over her head and grow so closely together that with each step she has to move yet another one. “Toby!” She calls again before thinking that even if the little animal could hear her, how in the world would he answer?

Molly pushes her way through more stalks before she can better hear the squeaking hedgehog. The poor thing is surrounded by a circle of enormous blue-black ravens and the birds are cawing at him kicking up quite the ruckus. Toby is surrounded by the beady-eyed birds and seems to be having difficulties rolling his stocky, spiky body into a protective ball. The creature has an expression of such extreme distress on his minute face that Molly wades right into the center of the murder without thinking twice. She picks up the hedgehog and proceeds to wave her other arm around while manically shouting at the birds.

“You big bullies, how dare you pick on someone so defenseless?” Well, she mentally corrects herself, he is a hedgehog, after all, so not totally defenseless, but still! The ravens caw angrily in her direction a few more times before rising together and disappearing in a black cloud to parts unknown. Molly strokes Toby’s back with her index finger, figuring correctly on how to touch him without getting stuck by one of the hard little barbs on his back.

“I must thank you ma’am, though I do not know your name to do it properly.” A man’s voice calls out from behind Molly.

Molly turns around slowly, searching for the owner of the voice. When she spies the man, he is hanging on hooks from a wooden framework in such a way that his arms are spread out wide and his legs are dangling. He is dressed in cast-off clothing that has oddly been stuffed with straw. Tied to his head is a bright green top hat, straw spilling out underneath.

“Oh!” Says Molly as she gets closer for a better look. “Did you, did you say something?” She narrows her eyes and bobs her head from side to side not unlike the big ravens she has just chased off.

“Yes, ma’am, I sure did!” The man’s expression is open and reminds Molly of bright sunny days spent with her grandparents in the park when she was much, much younger. His sparkling eyes are blue and he has the slightest dusting of golden freckles over the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks.

“Well then, you are quite welcome.” She reaches out to shake his hand and Toby squeaks at her. “That looks very uncomfortable, sir, would you like some help down?” Let it be said that Molly Hooper is never one to turn down someone in need.

“That would be lovely, thank you, young woman!” The man on the hooks beams and does his best to move about though all he really succeeds in doing is shaking about and losing wisps of straw.

Molly sets Toby back into his basket and clambers up the wooden scaffold. She starts with the man's arms, gently lifting each one off of the hook. He claps his gloved hands together, raising another dusty cloud of chaff, and laughs loudly. “Hold on, sir, let me just get this one. It would so help if you could stand!”

“I am sure that it would do so, my lady. I have been up here for so long, though, it is possible I may not even remember how to do such a thing!” He says with another chuckle.

Finally, with his weight removed from his arms, the man’s entire body falls to the ground with a thump when the old yellow jumper’s collar finally gives way. Despite his appearance, when the ground stops his fall, he is most certainly not a lightly-built straw man.

“My goodness!” Molly drops to her knees in order to help the man sit up with his back against one leg of the scaffold. “Are you alright, sir? I have no food or drink to offer you, though I am sure there must be something I can do!”

“It is alright, my lady. Give me a little rest here and then I shall climb to my feet and be off, unless you are looking for a small bit of companionship on your journey?” The man’s neck seems a little loose and he has to grasp the back of it with one hand to keep his chin from dropping to his chest.

“I did not tell you that I was on a journey, mister scarecrow.” Molly eyes the stranger up and down as if searching for some sort of weapon about his person or the answer to all the questions about life itself.

“Aye, you did not, however, I heard the ravens tell a story of a young woman who did away with the Wicked Witch of the East and that said young woman…I do believe that would be you, would be heading past my corn field on her way towards the Emerald City…and that means you are going to see the Wizard. Oh! I would so love to see the Wizard, I am hoping he can fix me right up, I so need a brain, you see. Mine was lost…lost…well, anyway, I am hoping that he can give it back to me!”

Molly has to drag herself out of the middle of the Scarecrow’s statement because she is thinking entirely too hard about whether or not he could actually breathe during any of that… “Yes, sir. Actually you are exactly right; I am headed to see the Wizard and I hoping he can help me get home.”

The Scarecrow nods his head and as his neck is finally getting stronger, he is peering up at her. He removes his hat and is slowly emptying the straw out of it. His hair underneath is exactly the same color as the straw, Molly notes. He drops to all fours and begins pushing himself up on his arms until he is standing. “That feels so wonderful after all this time!” The Scarecrow does a little jig there on the spot in his hand-me-down shoes and promptly falls right on his well padded rear end with a plop.

“Exactly how long have you been up there?” Molly asks.

The Scarecrow thinks for a moment, scratching at one ear. More chaff dances like dust motes in the sunlight. “Somewhere between ten and twenty years, I believe.” He gives a little shrug that raises a dusty cloud of straw and the dirt of a million ravens and changes of seasons; the dust falls to the grass in little heaps like saffron snow. His head tilts as he studies the little piles with a giggle.

Then the Scarecrow laughs out loud as Molly holds out a hand to help him to get back to his feet. After a few minutes, he is finally able to stand unsupported and he walks in several small circles to prove a point. Of course, in the middle of all that walking is two more falls and he bumps into the scaffolding twice; though he did laugh the entire time. He manages to pull his gloves off with a little help from Molly and then shoves them into a pocket of his brown canvas trousers that are just slightly too short for him. He gives her a little grin to show off the mismatched socks underneath his russet shoes: one is bright orange and the other is purple.

“I do believe, Miss Lady, Keeper of the Hedgehog Toby, that we are ready to continue on with our journey.” The Scarecrow does a fine job of bowing at the waist and tipping his hat in her direction.

“How did you know Toby’s name?” She asks as he links one arm through hers.

“Ah, the little guy and I have grown to be friends since I was stuck up there.” The Scarecrow points towards the tall wooden frame as they walk away from it. The empty ends of the big hooks look wicked in the broad daylight and they make Molly shudder to think of what they would do to human skin.

Molly gives a little laugh of her own in order to stop her morose thoughts. “That makes sense. I am so sorry that you had to be up there at all.”

The Scarecrow pats her arm gently.“I must admit, though, I do not yet know your name and since we are now travelling friends, we should at least be on a first name basis."

She pauses and clears her throat in a manner suggestive of...someone she used to know. "I will go first: my name is Molly Hooper.”

“Well, Molly Hooper, it is nice to meet you!” They shake hands and since the Scarecrow is no longer wearing gloves, Molly is surprised to see strong, workman-like hands complete with a slight tinge of tan to the skin. Even more surprising, his hands are warm.

“It is great to meet you, too; what is your name, then?” Molly grins.

“Well, I have been the Scarecrow—actually the really-bad-at-his-job Scarecrow—all this time, though before….before I found myself in that dangly position I was known as John Watson.”

“It is wonderful to meet you, too, John. Mind sharing some stories for the road?” Molly laughs with delight when John lets go her arm to make another attempt at dusting himself off. When he is satisfied, they again link arms and with Toby curled up napping in his basket, the newly-minted friends step back onto the Yellow Brick Road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 6 2014: Editing, editing, editing :)  
> Dec 6 notes: I'm an idiot, had to correct where I called Molly Dorothy. I am so sorry, dear readers!  
> Dec 3 notes: Ugh. My mistakes fixed and several small details added.  
> 


	5. Monkey Spy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you were wondering....

“Jim!”

The Wicked Witch of the West calls out to her favorite henchman from the large, claw-footed bathtub that she is currently stretched out in. A long ivory cigarette in a handle dangles from between two of her fingers while the other pats at the bun of her hair, making sure none of the ebony strands have come loose while she lounges. One single light-green skinned leg rests against the pure black enamel of the tub, the toes on the foot painted blood red. Her skin is still youthfully soft, despite its color, and its smoothness is a marked contrast to the rough rock walls of the castle that surround her, even in this small space.

The witch’s lips match the color of her nails and are gently wrapped around the tasty end of the posh cigarette when Jim arrives in his usual fashion in the castle window. He settles gently onto his feet for such a heavy creature and flaps his wings to realign the brown feathers before he narrows his yellow eyes at her, scratching his furry belly with one hand as he does so.

“Bitch.” He snaps his tongue between long upper canines in an unsuccessful attempt to stop the word before it becomes audible. He stares at the unearthly figure between the clouds of steam that almost hide her from view; he can still make out the expression she wears: one mixed with both arrogance and her ever present need to flirt with anything open to suggestion within her vicinity. Apparently, even flying monkeys are not immune. He scowls the best he can with no eyebrows to speak of.

The witch rolls her icy blue eyes and laughs at him with a short, barking sound that ends in a single cough. For a moment she breathes deeply then stubs the cigarette out on the side of the tub, where it drops to the floor uselessly and rolls against the plush hunter green rug with a tiny thump.

“I could have just killed you, Jimmy. But look at you! So much better in your current incarnation, no? Not found any friends you could fu….”

“Don’t even say it.” The gold crown he wears wobbles when he jerks his head backwards in an attempt to escape her rapier sharp mocking. His expression is closed off and his thin lips are pulled so tight against his teeth that his sharp fangs are leaving an imprint behind them. He shuffles about on his hairy feet and flaps his wings against each other with a loud clap. Jim glares down at the witch again with utter disdain written plainly on his slightly wrinkled countenance.

“Ah, Jim dear, you take the joy from my life so easily. Hand me that towel and you can outline today’s exploits.” The witch reaches for the plush orange towel hanging on a hook beside the window and wraps herself in it.

Jim thinks it clashes horribly with her pale green skin. He tries not to remember _before.._.and manages to stop the memory train dead in its tracks. He will eventually get even, of that there is no mistake, however, he is intelligent enough to mark time, even being stuck in this ridiculous body. He delivers his report of the day, moving from foot to foot on the windowsill like a little boy eager to share news that he knows is going to provoke a strong reaction from the listener. He reaches up to readjust his jiggling crown while relishing the thought of seeing the witch riled up. In order to antagonize her a little more, he simply shuts up and goes completely still.

The witch stands facing the huge vanity mirror next to the bathtub. She is touching up her lipstick and charcoal grey eye shadow, her eyes intently studying every single movement made by her winged minion at the same time. When his mouth snaps shut for the second time, she turns toward him and the towel slips off of her trim waist to puddle at her feet. Jim gets an eyeful; before he can react with either lewd comments or outright mocking scorn to match hers, one of her strong hands is squeezing his windpipe.

“Tell me.” Squeeze.

“Ir…I...can’t...breathe…” Jim's blunt claws uselessly at the well-manicured hand.

“That is the idea, monkey. Let me remind you that your miserable life serves exactly _one_ single purpose: to cater to me. I am giving you exactly one second of air, Jim dear. Do not waste it as that will _displease_ me.” With that, she opens her hand but does not let go.

“It was _her_ , my mistress. The one who took out Imogene! I saw her with John Watson and I must say your handiwork there is quite impressive indeed..." Slight tightening of the hand around his neck reminds him to get a move on it. "...anyway she has John and the last I saw them they were heading out towards the Emerald City and that is going to be a real riot…I….”

“Shut up now.” The witch’s hand tightens against Jim’s throat again; however, this time it is simply a reminder of _what_ she is capable of doing rather than what she is doing at this moment. She lets go the flying monkey and paces the small room. “You may leave now. You will return and report first thing tomorrow.” Her deceptively soft voice is cold even in the humid room and brooks no argument whatsoever.

“Yes, mistress.” Jim unfurls his wings, flaps them hard enough to force a chilly breeze against her naked body as he lifts off from the window and out into the night.

*

The Wicked Witch stands in the center of the lowest room in the castle; an unnatural darkness draped about her like a cape as she stares into a luminous crystal ball. Though Jim is her most favorite spy throughout the Land of Oz, occasionally she resorts to the powers within the ball when his reports seem rather outlandish.

Inside the glowing ball is a swirling mass of what could be clouds or smoke, depending on the searcher. She taps her long red fingernails against the crystal, silently counting down from ten. The witch does not take the time to enjoy the sight of the golden glow from the ball and how it reaches out to caress her face. She leans against the three-legged table that holds the crystal sphere and continues drumming against its polished surface.

White clouds clear and allow the witch to gaze directly down on the Scarecrow and the young woman responsible for her sister’s death as they follow the yellow bricks. The girl seems to be laughing at something the Scarecrow has said, even going so far as to lay her hand on his arm. The witch narrows her gaze and thinks that when they meet up with the _other one_ , of that there is no doubt going by the way they are heading, things may get interesting, considering his rather possessive nature.

Could it be possible that what was there before still exists between them?

She laughs out loud this time and is once again stopped by the persistent cough. Oh no! This little drama just took a turn for the better, because how in the world can someone still partake of those emotions when they lack the necessary equipment to process them?

The witch spins about the room on her boot heels, her long black dress swirling dramatically. She raises both hands and an old wooden broom careens through the doorway to stop within grasping distance. She mounts it and grabs her pointed black hat from a hook as she flies past. The crystal ball on the table goes dark.

*

 “…and then I told him that there was no way _that_ was going anywhere near any part of my body until it had been properly washed!”

Molly decides that John, as she prefers to call him by his proper name, tells jokes exactly the way he seems to do everything: with so much underlying warmth that you're left in no doubt that he cares about you as a human being. He has kept her laughing at his anecdotes and silly puns for several hours as they have covered the distance from the cornfield. Pretty good for a chap who says he has no brains.

They continue to walk in silence for a bit after that, giving Molly the chance to study her companion. He is carrying the white basket containing Toby and the little animal seems to be just as content in John’s presence as she is. There is something endearingly _comfortable_ about the stocky blonde man…as well as something awfully _familiar_ …

Once again, Molly is forced to shake off thoughts that make no sense in the scheme of things when John tugs at her arm to steer her towards an orchard growing alongside the road. Molly follows John’s line of sight and finds herself faced with the largest collection of fruit trees she has ever seen in her life. Massive oranges, enormous limes and apples the size of her head hang enticingly from the branches. Rainbow-colored birds and softball-sized yellow bees flit in between the fruits and flowers.

“They are beautiful!” She exclaims.

Beside Molly, John smiles in agreement. He steps up onto the curb with just the faintest wobble and holds out a hand to the young woman. She takes it in her own and follows him into the orchard. The trees are so tall that they soon discover it is best for her to climb up onto John’s shoulders in order to reach the lowest hanging fruit. Together they pick two of the gigantic apples and one orange then find a spot to enjoy them.

Molly peels the football-sized orange and lays a section on the ground for Toby, who squeaks his thanks. They eat their breakfast surrounded by the sounds of the birds and the bees and it is not long before the previous days catch up with Molly. Soon she is fast asleep stretched out on soft grass beside John, her head resting against the well worn material on his thigh. John is comfortable being in any position besides one where his feet are dangling; he knows they are in no hurry and so he lets the young woman rest against him. Glad to be of some use, he gazes down at her and thinks of someone else.

Not that Molly is not pretty, that is not the case at all; the last few days have proven that she is indeed one of those rare kind souls. John simply feels like more a father than any type of boyfriend around her; something about her has kicked all of his protective instincts into high gear. He imagines what that would be like once the Wizard gives him his brain back…of course, if he can protect her long enough to get to the Emerald City, then nothing would ever hurt her the way that…

John’s thoughts are rudely interrupted by a long, low cackle that he desperately wishes he did not immediately recognize. “What do you want?” He spits in the direction of the last person he ever wants to see, especially now that he is no longer dangling from a scaffold in the middle of a corn field.

“Oh Johnny, Johnny, Johnny! How _are_ you, my dear? I see you’ve managed to get out of my trap and I have a feeling that the brat there…” The witch points down at Molly from her perch on her broom, “…is at least partially to blame for the undoing of your punishment.”

“Irene, go away.” John crosses his arms over his chest, carefully though, so as not to disturb Molly’s calm slumbering. From beside him comes a little indignant squeak from Toby. John feels the little creature run up his arm to rest on his shoulder but he dares not take his eyes off the witch.

“Oh come on, _John Boy_. You made a most excellent scarecrow! I think you’ve been the scariest thing they have ever seen…oops! I mean the biggest failure!” The witch cackles again.

“Well, I’m off the hook now, Irene. Quite literally, too. And once I find _him_ you are finished.” John growls. Molly moves a little against him. He knows Irene cannot touch the ground here in this particular place that is blessed by Glinda, so he is no more afraid of her now as he ever was.

“Awwww….Johnny! What a way to break a _girl’s_ heart! You are so pretty and you know it. Especially with that I’m-a-bad-mother-fucker glint in your eyes! Maybe that’s why _he_ …”

“Irene, shut up! Just shut up and go away. I know what you did to me, and if anything you did to him is even close, well, you are as much a failure as a witch as I am a scarecrow.” John’s blue eyes darken three shades; the promise of a storm lingers behind his gaze.

Irene laughs again. “You really don’t know?”

John tries hard to ignore her. He does not know and thinks that deep inside he really does not want to. He is almost ready to give in when Molly sits up and rubs her eyes.

It takes her about three seconds to realize they have company and when she finally looks upward at the witch, she thinks that nothing else in her life should ever surprise her.

“Who…I mean, who are you?” Molly is completely bewildered. Once again she is struck with the eerie feeling of _familiarity_ but she is learning to ignore the foolishness of it.

“I am your worst nightmare, Molly Hooper. I have something I need to say to you, little girl.” With that, Irene drops down closer to them though she remains seated sidesaddle on her broom; the toes of her boots just skim the ground and she is right on eye level with Molly. “Listen, _girly_.” Irene hisses.

Molly, to her credit, says nothing. She regards the witch closely, taking in the green hue of her skin and the blood red nails on her hands; the rigid expression and cold blue of her eyes. Molly nods once.

“Good. You know how to show proper respect to those above your station, at least. Better than others.” Irene gives John a pointed look that promises punishment in the future, and not the fun kind. She turns her attention back to Molly. “I know you killed my sister. And that’s really okay, kid. She was in my way, without a doubt. I get it.”

Molly opens her mouth to speak but nothing happens.

“Oh, no, dearie. Don’t even tell me about how you did not know and it was an accident yadda yadda yadda…I don’t want your excuses. However,” here Irene held up one finger like a school teacher making a point to her class. “I am willing to let bygones be bygones if you let me have my sister’s boots. With her gone, you must see how they do belong to me.” The witch tries for a sweet voice but only ends up on the wrong side of _oily_.

Molly’s gaze drops from the witch’s face to the silver footwear. No one has ever told her _not_ to take them off, but somehow she senses that it would be the wrong thing to do. “No.”

“What?” Irene spits. The witch and the broom rock backward by the force of her voice alone. Tiny red sparks fly from the end of the broom. John grabs Molly by the shoulders and Toby makes angry hedgehog noises on John’s shoulder while the little mammal raises all of his quills in the same manner as a dog does its hackles.

“I said no.” Molly crosses her arms and says again, this time more sternly.

“Fine. So be it then. When I punish you all for your insolence, you will be the one _begging_ me for mercy.” Irene laughs again; this time the sound is dark and murky as an ancient swamp. All of the false sincerity is gone, replaced by a wicked tongue that is sharp as a carving knife.

“There may be places that _I_ cannot touch you, Molly Hooper, but you will make a mistake and I will be waiting.” Irene gives them one last parting shot before she is soaring over the trees.

John takes a deep breath and rejoices in the fact that it feels like the orchard and the animals around him do the same thing. He pats Molly’s back, hoping to quell her fearful trembling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and now you know!  
>  6 May 2014 editing


	6. The Missing Heart

“John, um, I know you are being quiet right now because you are probably thinking…and I…well, I have a friend back home who likes to _think_ that way and really, truly hates to be interrupted, _but_ …” Molly’s words trails off a bit when she notices that Toby is stirring in his basket. She pats the hedgehog through the material that's pulled up over him where he's nestled into it like a blanket.

John is walking about three steps in front of Molly, so he stops and waits for her to catch up. He sticks his arm through hers and gives her the best smile he can muster under the circumstances. “Yes, Molly, I have been thinking; well, the best as is possible whilst missing the most important bodily organ to do so, you know!”

His chuckle warms Molly from her toes to her nose. She smiles back, a little less afraid when he is happy.

“What have you been thinking about?” Molly queries, noticing how they are keeping in step with one another; the road behind does not seem as long as the miles they still have to cover in order to get to the Emerald City.

“I have been thinking about what the Wicked Witch said to you before Her Royal Nastiness finally left our company.” John answers, his eyes scanning the horizon ahead of them.

“Which part?”

“The part where she said that there are places that _she_ cannot touch you, because I have to admit that I have absolutely no idea what she meant.” John is quiet again for a few seconds. “Did Glinda mention anything to you about a spell or something to keep you safe on the road?”

Molly scrunches up her face in concentration. She shakes her head which causes her ponytail to dance up and down crazily. “No. Not that I can remember, anyway.”

“Hmmph. Well, there has to be something. I wish….”

“OK, now it’s your turn to answer a question, John. You keep doing that. There was a special someone before the witch did whatever she did to you, right?” Molly’s voice is tender. She most emphatically does not think about how strange it is to be having this conversation. Of course, she split an elephantine apple at lunchtime with a man who was hung up as a scarecrow not too long ago, so she guesses that _strange_ is relative at this point.

John considers his answer. He would rather not hurt her, but the truth is the truth. “Yes.”

Molly waits patiently for the rest of the story. They walk a little while and she stares about, alternately watching the scenery and the lack thereof. Since they left the orchard, mostly the Yellow Brick Road has been flanked by large expanses of pretty much nothing but hard packed dirt: they look like fields in a book she saw once that discussed the American West after the great dust storms went through. In a word: boring. Occasionally a great murder of ravens breaks up the dullness of it, but there is not much else; no greenery, not even a house.

Molly decides that pushing John to talk about his missing special someone is probably a mistake. Instead, she changes the subject. “What is all this, then?” She gestures towards the rather dead landscape.

“I am really not sure, Molly. This all used to be lush farmland, but that was before Irene flicked her damned wand at me and hung me out to dry in that cornfield.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Molly tries hard not to give her companion a pitying look.

John stops and crosses the road to drop to his behind on the curb. He reaches out for the basket and uncovers Toby who happily scrambles up John’s arm to his shoulder. The hedgehog makes a couple of tiny squeaks that Molly decides right then and there must be the little creature’s happy sounds. Apparently the hedgehog and the Scarecrow are quite good friends.

John taps the grey stone curb next to him. Molly lowers herself to join him, looking anywhere but into his blue eyes. “Molly, will you please look at me?”

She turns towards him to see a tight smile, tension lines on his forehead and around his eyes. Molly knows what a broken heart feels like but she has never been this close to anyone to actually see it; and she has to admit that it is written all over him. A love lost, bitter loneliness and a deep sadness from being forcibly separated. She is unsure as to how she can see all this on his face, yet the feeling that is she is absolutely correct about all of it will not go away.

“She forced the two of you apart.” Molly states.

“Yes, she did.” John nods as he runs a hand through his straw colored hair. Toby is curled up on the shoulder closest to Molly.

“Why would anyone ever do something so nasty to someone as nice as you?” Molly’s mouth turns downward at the corners and the sight of it really bothers John.

“No, Molly, don’t do that.” He strokes her hand where it is resting on the curb between them. “Don’t be sad for me. Let me make a long story very short: we found some things out about a very bad person once. Apparently that very bad person had…uh…allies, for want of a better word. Those allies were more than a little jealous and, well, things took a turn for the worse and here you are and here I am and well, when I get to the Wizard and perhaps he does or does not give me my brain back, I am going to go and find somewhere else to live that does not have a Wicked Witch and maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to find a bit of happiness and I can start over.”

“John, do you even breathe when you do that?” Molly asks in an attempt to draw the scarecrow out of the funk he has just talked himself into.

“What?” John looks at her dumbfounded. Apparently, he does not realize it.

“That thing you just did there. Can I say something without offending you?”

“Sure, go ahead.” John strokes Toby’s tiny head and the hedgehog closes his eyes in pleasure.

“I don’t always get the tiny details, but when you said to the Wicked Witch that _when_ you find _him_ and then she asked you a question: ‘you mean you don’t know.’ I am positive that if your special person had been taken away from here, and I mean all of the Land of Oz in the word ‘here’, would she not have said that to you? Because it seems as if she really wants to hurt you, and wouldn’t that do it?” Molly finishes up quickly; she is taken aback by the suddenly stern look on John’s face.

Within the space of a few heartbeats, however, John is radiantly beaming at her. “Molly, even someone without a brain can see what a clever young woman you are.” John stands up so quickly that Toby is thrown off balance. With a smooth save, the hedgehog is in John’s palm and being handed off to Molly. Molly pats Toby and sets him down into his basket.

John grabs both of her hands and spins her around in a circle, laughing like he's misplaced more than his brain. He pulls her in close, one hand on her back and the other holding hers away from them. Humming a little, he turns them on the spot. “You are right. Would you mind terribly if we make a few little diversions from our straight and narrow road towards the Wizard? We will still be headed in the same direction, only we will stop more often to check out a few places that I am starting to remember.”

He pushes her away from him with one hand and pulls her into a spin; before she knows it they are dancing again. Molly laughs. In a short amount of time she has known him, she has come to think of John Watson as her friend and anything that makes him happy does her as well. Besides, no one has ever given them an actual time frame, so where would the harm lie?

“Sure, John, let’s find your special someone.” She laughs and they dance a little ways down the road, John doing a little soft-shoe here and there against the yellow bricks.

*

Time on the Yellow Brick Road passes by in a different manner than that of normal days: whether those days are passed through working or relaxing. John and Molly have taken to ducking off of the main drag now and again in their search for what Molly has termed John’s ‘special person.’ John watches her closely as she reaches up for what looks to be a bright purple pear on the branch of a rather scraggly tree standing in the center of this field they have just entered. As always, John does some surveillance to be sure that Irene has not followed them and once his natural protective instinct is satisfied, Molly and Toby scurry about either checking out the new place or rustling up some grub. He is glad that the weather seems to be holding out, though the sky has been grey and threatening all day.

They are getting closer to the Emerald City and John has to admit that he is beginning to feel a little disheartened. They have wasted so much time looking for _him_ that John is starting to think it was just another one of the witch’s mind games. He chuckles darkly to himself; of course she would choose to play mind games with someone who no longer has a mind.

He shakes his head to clear out the cobwebs that have settled between his ears. “Molly, I am going to go check out this little house.” John points behind himself as he calls out to Molly. She is standing on her tiptoes now, the silver boots glinting softly in the dying light of the day. He is hoping that perhaps he can find them a comfortable place in which to pass the night. Sleeping on the road is rough when one is young, but lately he has been feeling his time spent hanging around the cornfield in more ways than one: especially on these nights that have been steadily growing cooler. Not to mention the exhaustion that is coming from being constantly vigilant where Irene and her possible minions are concerned.

He tugs at the threadbare hem of his jumper and looks thoughtfully at Molly’s skirt and blouse. If they keep up their traveling at this pace, they will both need some warmer clothes long before they get to their destination. With that in mind, he cautiously circles the little house. At one point it has been painted blue, though now the color is weather beaten and faded. He checks out the front door, a pair of brass twos and a one hanging upside down from the single nail still holding them in place. John uses the matching door knocker and counts to ten. When there is no answer, he pushes on the door and when it opens, he steps across the threshold and into a messy but cozy sitting room. The carpet beneath his feet is dark gray, the walls are off-white and coated in a heavy layer of dust. There is an old fireplace and John is glad to see a small pile of wood beside it. The grate is empty except for a small pile of what he assumes are old ashes inside.

There is a sofa and two chairs in the room. Beyond it he can see what appears to be a kitchen. With the fireplace, whether it rains or snows, they will at least be warm for the night. He casually strolls through the house to a small linen cupboard and finds it well stocked with blankets and things. He is satisfied that they will be safe here and does one last check of the fireplace by leaning down and looking up the flue. A little bit of ash clings to the burnt orange colored brick, but it is most certainly clean enough to make a safe fire to keep them warm. He looks forward to waking in the morning and maybe his joints not being so stiff.

John pulls the door closed behind him. His mind is now set on catching up with Molly, whom he can see at the far perimeter of the yard. She has filled Toby's basket with a variety of fruits. Since being changed, John has no need to actually eat, though he enjoys the taste of what they have found; he also eats to keep Molly from feeling alone, and, besides, she seems to take pleasure from sharing, so it’s all good.

His next goal is to try and find some water. With the placement of the house, he is fairly certain there must be a stream or something nearby. He searches about until he finds a small bucket in reasonable condition and heads towards a well he sees at the back of the house. John places the bucket in the proper position and presses down on the pump handle. It is stiff but with some elbow grease and stubborn determination not to let Molly down, he manages to fill it. The water is clean and smells like nothing more than well water. He takes the bucket into the house and sets it on the dusty counter in the kitchen. It is by no means perfect, but it will do for the time being.

Back outside, John scouts about to see where Molly has gotten herself off to. He sees Toby and knows from experience that Molly is usually not too far away from the hedgehog.

“Molly!” John calls to her. Molly pokes her head from around a corner of the house.

“John! You have got to see this!” Her enthusiastic voice is brimming with discovery.

When John finally joins her, he finds out exactly why. Running the entire length of this side of the house is what he is sure would have been a marvelous garden. The skeletons of dead rose bushes bow to the ground and a broken bird bath made of white marble lays on its side. Standing amidst the detritus of neglected plants is a statue of a tall man playing a violin.

John goes completely off line for a moment. He eyes the statue skeptically. Statues do not move, even statues from the Land of Oz; and he is sure that this one just did. If it was not for Molly’s gasp of surprise, John would be sure that he was finally going to be declared insane, brain or no brain. Maybe it's just a trick of the sun setting. Or not. He has to find out.

John steps up closer to the statue and looks into the eyes that he is so sure just blinked; eyes that he hasn’t seen in an incredibly long time.

Another blink and a muffled voice lend credit to John’s belief.

“It can’t be," he says, stepping backwards into Molly who has come up behind him. “Molly, did you hear that?”

“Yes, John, it sounds like the statue is saying ‘please.’”

“Good. That’s what I heard, too. Of course, that was usually the _last_ word that _he_ would ever say, and only if…” John is ready when the eyes blink again and the mouth attempts to move. The entire statue is rigidly held in place by what looks like a covering of metal. There are rust spots covering the jaw hinges and the joints of the fingers that hold the bow against the silent instrument.

“Oh!” John hears Molly say from somewhere behind him and then she is pressing something into his hand. It is a small bottle like an eye dropper. He stares into the statue’s eyes and dabs some of the liquid inside the bottle against the statue’s jaw.

Eyes that now John can see are green blink more rapidly with the exertion of forcing open bones that seem to have been stuck in the closed position for quite some time. The mouth finally opens, the eyes widen and a single word is spoken.

“John?”

Tears fall unchecked from John’s eyes. In his heart, he truly never believed that he would ever hear that voice again. He reaches up to touch once-familiar skin that has been changed into … whatever this is. In that instant, he knows that it does not matter. He made it through the Witch’s nasty game mostly intact.

John finally finds the words he never thought he would utter the rest of his life, “Sherlock, you’re alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dah Dah Dunnnn!
> 
> 6 May 2014: editing completed


	7. Proof of a Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John has always carried enough concentrated radiance for the both of them."

The man-statue’s jade eyes go from an icy hard glint to a softer, minty color when he looks down at the man who is reaching up to gently cup his cheek. Those eyes close for just a second as the mind searches for long-lost warmth; he can feel the heat but it is no more than a tiny pinprick of sensation. He is determined that John will not know this. Ever.

John has always carried enough concentrated radiance for the both of them.

John sniffles and gives Sherlock a watery smile, his blue eyes shining like jewels lying at the bottom of the Caribbean Sea. He steps back and tips the oil bottle again and again, giving the taller man the chance to move out of his awkward position. Last but not least, he is able to put the violin on the ground at his feet; he opens his arms wide and John steps forward into his chest.

Molly studies the two of them from a few steps behind John, watching as the tall man completely envelopes the scarecrow in his embrace. He bends his head down and Molly hears the very loud clink and scrape of what could only be described as metal against metal.

“It sounds like rain on a tin roof.” Molly says out loud.

Sherlock lifts his head again to gaze at her without moving in any other way. He does not answer her, though she can see him studying her intently, bit it is very difficult to read his expression. His face is still partially hidden by tiny sheets of metal plating, and it covers his head like a helmet, though some dark curls can be seen when he turns towards her or bends down towards John. His skin, with the barely there metal plating, is a faint bluish color which sets off the blazing color of his eyes and the faint pink blush on his high cheekbones.

When they finally part, Sherlock picks up the violin and wordlessly turns towards the house. John gestures towards Molly and they follow him. The Tin Man is wearing khaki canvas trousers like John's and he is barefoot. From his shoulders drapes a long sapphire dressing gown that Molly is sure is made of the finest silk, it is so shimmery. It billows out behind him like the cape of some unnamed superhero as he strides up the path; Molly hopes that she is not mistaken.

Sherlock opens the front door with nothing more than a push of one large hand and it swings inward pleasantly. John stands back and allows Molly to pass him then he pulls it closed behind him. He is letting go of the doorknob when a familiar and much missed voice says quietly but very distinctly, “Lock it.” John clicks the lock into place.

John heads to the fireplace where the wood is stacked and makes to light it. Molly and Toby have settled on the sofa, the hedgehog curled in Molly’s lap. She is leaning against one of the arms, her eyes half closed. John finishes stoking the fire and stands up, casting his eyes about for Sherlock. Outside the windows, dusk has fallen and the only light in the room is the flickering flames.

Molly moves enough to kick her shoes off and then curls on her side on the couch. Sherlock reappears with an old brown blanket and gently drapes it over the young woman. Toby climbs up near Molly’s face then curls into a ball, his pointy muzzle resting against his tiny front paws. They are both asleep between two of John’s heartbeats; he turns back to watch the ethereal dance of the flames. 

Before John has time to even consider his next move, Sherlock has pressed his cold body up against John’s fire-heated one; his arms wrap around John’s waist and torso and pull him in as tightly as possible. John relaxes back into the embrace and valiantly fights the tears that threaten to make themselves known again.

“Sherlock what happened to you?” He whispers. John rests his hands against Sherlock’s, wanting to touch but the chilly hardness beneath his fingertips make him unsure.

“The same that happened to you, I suspect. Irene.” To John’s ears come the rolling waves of Sherlock’s gently schooled accent as his chest vibrates against John’s back. The thin metal plates embedded just under Sherlock’s skin create a definite echo to the hypnotic rumble of his voice, lending physicality to something otherwise untouchable.

“Yes.” John agrees. “She took my brain, Sherlock, when she changed me.”

He does not want to say it, but John has to know; after all this time they owe each other the truth.

“She took my heart.”

“Sherlock…no.” John turns in Sherlock’s arms and pulls the taller man’s head down towards him in order for their lips to touch briefly. Where John’s are hot with the pulse of living blood, Sherlock’s are as cold as if he had been eating ice cream. John wants to cry, to lash out, to scream and force the Wicked Witch to give everything back to them…though he knows that is a pointless effort. He tells himself that he _will_ destroy Irene and Jim both the first chance that becomes readily available.

“Sherlock, listen to me.” Their eyes meet and the depth of the emotions that bind them is practically tangible. John fancies he can still hear Sherlock’s heart beating beyond the sparks in his eyes that mirror the flames in the hearth as full night descends upon them. He rests his palm against Sherlock’s chest and the Tin Man copies him.

“It changes nothing between us.” John's voice is strong, determined.

Sherlock can do nothing but nod his head when John pulls him for another searing kiss that he can barely feel. He remembers, though, and knows that those sense memories will be enough for the time being.

“Come to bed with me, John.” He orders and walks them backwards into the bedroom where he has spent the last many years alone.

It takes about three seconds for John and Sherlock to cross over the bedroom’s threshold before John finds himself pinned up against the door, the strange coolness of Sherlock’s hands roaming his body both over and under his clothes. John tries desperately to return the favor but each time his hands come into contact with Sherlock’s skin, he fights a shiver. It is not that the idea of the metal repulses John, only that he needs time to adjust to it. Sherlock pulls away from him then practically tosses him onto the narrow bed and has John’s trousers off before John can even squeak.

“John. I understand.” Sherlock says before taking John’s raging hardness into his mouth. His. Cold. Mouth.

John makes a noise that is most emphatically not a squeak and pulls away from his lover with a jerk that almost sends him over the edge of the bed. “Your tongue is frozen!”

Sherlock, for his part, looks lost for a moment then stoically crawls over John’s body. He comes to rest with his hands beside John’s head. “I still want you, John. I have no idea what to do.”

John’s body is trembling with desire. He grabs Sherlock’s head in his hands and crashes their lips together, allowing his tongue to do to Sherlock’s mouth what his body would prefer to be doing. “Hold on.” He reaches down and tugs his trousers back up around his hips and rocks gently against Sherlock, slipping a hand in between the canvas material of the ones Sherlock is wearing and wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s arousal.

The Scarecrow almost sobs with relief when he finds that at least one part of his lover’s body feels like normal flesh; hard and warm, though nowhere near normal body temperature. As it has always been between them, they will adjust for each other.

“Ah!” Sherlock moans against John’s mouth when John manages to tug his now weeping prick into his hand beside Sherlock’s. Together they thrust roughly until one of them screams the other’s name and then they are both falling into a dreamless sleep.

 

*

“Tell me about him, John.” Molly says the next morning when she awakens to John building another fire. She takes a deep breath and realizes that she can smell something wonderful baking in the kitchen. Looking around the tiny cottage, it is obvious that John has been up for awhile. From the sofa she can see that the bedroom door is closed. Molly pulls the blanket tighter about herself, suddenly feeling alone. Her movements gently shift Toby who clambers up her arm to rest on her shoulder in imitation of the way he likes to sit on John.

“Molly, I don’t think there are enough words to describe him.” John tells her honestly.

Trying to reassure her friend, Molly smiles. “Was this all the Wicked Witch’s doing?” She points towards the window on the east wall where they had found the Tin Man an unbelievably short amount of hours ago.

John understands. “Yes.” He tries hard to think of a way to explain, though he is rescued from his feeble effort when Sherlock enters the room carrying a plate with two large slices of fresh bread slathered with butter on them. He hands the plate to Molly who takes it with a little exclamation of surprise.

“You were assuming that John was baking?” Sherlock in any incarnation has never been one to beat around the bush.

“I did, yes. Yes, I did.” Molly mumbles as she takes a bite of the perfect golden crust.

John actually laughs. “How much cooking have you seen me do since I joined you?”

Molly looks perplexed for a second. “Well, none, really; but I thought it was simply because we were on the road without the necessary supplies…” she lets her sentence peter out because the bread is exquisite.

John taps his head with his pointer finger. “Kinda hard to cook when you are missing this.”

Molly blushes and swallows. “Well, I must thank you Mister….uh, Tin Man?”

John looks from Molly to Sherlock who has tilted his head like a hound dog listening for the cry of its quarry. “Tin Man.” He says to himself, letting the words roll around on his tongue.

“His name is Sherlock.” John offers.

“No, John, actually, it is growing on me a bit. Miss Hooper, you may call me ‘Tin Man’ if you like.” Sherlock gives her a stiff nod as he saunters into the kitchen, moving as gracefully as ever, even if a little more creaky than before.

John sits down in one of the chairs and waits for Sherlock to join them again. Molly happily finishes the bread, leaving a piece of a crust for Toby who climbs onto the plate when she rests it on her lap. Sherlock passes her a steaming cup of tea before he takes the other seat.

The Tin Man holds out one arm and taps against his skin with his fingernails. The sound is barely audible, but once John hears it he knows he will never forget it: _ting, ting_. “I have attempted—unsuccessfully I might add—several times to discern exactly what her spell did to me. There seem to be tiny plates between the first and second layer of my dermis, and while they are not painful in the least, they do sort of numb me to any outside touch…almost like wearing a suit of armor _under_ my skin rather than atop it.”

John frowns. “When I was a scarecrow, the straw was only under my clothes.” He pulls at the collar of his worn jumper to show how it has been stretched to accommodate the stuffing that is mostly gone now.

“He was also wearing a bright green top hat filled with straw when I found him.” Molly adds.

John chuckles. “I am so glad I lost that thing!”

Even Sherlock gives a small smile. “John, I think you must have been her first attempt. The last thing Irene said to me before I blacked out was that she had two more to do and her spell would be complete.”

The mood in the room shifts rapidly.

“What did she mean by that?” John queries.

“That is the second thing I have been desperate to discover. I have gone over the problem with a fine-toothed comb and found no clue as to who or what she would have meant.” Sherlock tells him, his voice solemn.

John sits back in the chair and crosses his legs. Molly thinks he looks quite at home. “Was this your home?” She asks both of the men.

“No.” They answer together then look at one another.

“We lived on the outskirts of Orville, Sherlock tinkered about with various projects and puzzles. He often fixed the broken things that the Munchkins would bring him.” John gives Sherlock a fond look.

“John, what did you do?”

“I was a physician.” He states then shrugs his shoulders. “Though those days are gone, too, I guess.”

Molly does not know what to say to that. “You two were together a long time, weren’t you?”

“Thirteen years.” John answers.

“Thirteen years and seven months exactly.” Sherlock states.

“I stand corrected!” John lightly pushes Sherlock sideways.

“Is that why the Wicked Witch…”

“No, Molly, Irene did not do this to us because we were together; mostly. She did this because we took something valuable to her away from her.” John informs Molly. Beside him, Sherlock nods the affirmative.

“Do you feel like talking about it?” Molly asks.

They share another indiscernible look. “Molly, I know how you have come to be here in Oz, and I understand that you and John are going to the Wizard to ask for help, especially to get you home. I can give you the knowledge you seek, however, you must understand that being around us puts you in danger. Knowing the full story will make it even more dangerous.” Sherlock tells her; his face is serene and once again virtually expressionless.

Molly considers their words. She cannot go on towards the Emerald City alone. She has already faced the Wicked Witch of the East; somehow she feels like she can trust these men to keep her safe and make sure she stays on the yellow path. “I want to know. I can’t help along the way if I don’t have all the facts straight.”

John nods quickly and holds out a hand in between the chairs. Sherlock grasps it in his own before he opens his mouth. “Let me start with Irene’s sister, Imogen.” He clears his throat then with what seems to be synchronized timing, something big crashes through the front window.

John and Sherlock jump towards it and Molly dives behind the couch, clutching Toby in one hand. They hit the floor behind the furniture with a thud and a squeak; all of the Scarecrow and Tin Man’s attention is on the furry brown ball on the floor. John grabs the thing by its wings and hauls it to its feet. At its full height, its head is at Sherlock’s knees. Sherlock leans down to look into its face, stubbornly ignoring the terrible smell emanating from it.

The flying monkey bares its sharp canines in a long, low hiss. “Ho Ho there, Sure-Looooock!” Yellow eyes go narrow; Sherlock is not fooled for a second as the creature’s quick intelligence gives it right away. The nasty sing-song voice is another clue to its former identity. “Wondered when we would meet agaaaainnnn!”

“You!” Sherlock shouts as he grabs for the creature’s throat. John holds it still by bracing it against his legs and keeping a firm grip on the muscular wings.

Molly peeks over the back of the couch. “What in all that’s glorious is _that_?” She rudely points at the creature who has not taken its eyes off Sherlock.

John answers. “Number three.”

Sherlock says, “ _That_ is James Moriarty.” Unconsciously copying Irene, his big hand begins to squeeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6 May 2014: editing complete  
> Dec 8-did some minor editing today, just some small details: especially one to make dear Jim even more insulting to the senses!


	8. Magic, Myths and Old Friends

Molly screams in horror at the same time John makes a grab for Sherlock’s arm when he sees the Tin Man’s fingers begin to tighten around James’ throat. The furry menace flaps his wings hard against his body in an attempt to throw Sherlock off balance now that they are free. Instead of loosening up, Sherlock’s grip is gaining strength; John can feel the hardness of living muscle underneath the give of the thin metal and the slide of his dressing gown.

It is perfectly apparent to John very quickly that he is going to be completely useless in this situation as far as strength goes. Being stuck up on hooks for so long has done a number on his muscles that days of travel and one good night of sleep have not helped in the least. All he can do is hang on and hope for the best as his fingers begin to slip, desperately trying to come up with anything despite his clear lack of brain power.

When Moriarty’s yellow eyes widen and take on a fixed stare, John leans into Sherlock and says in a very calm, very controlled manner: “If he dies now, we will never have any answers.”

The Tin Man’s head whips around, causing the metal plates on his neck to grind loudly. His eyes are green lasers boring into John’s face, obviously waging a war in his head about the best course of action. John’s words break through the redness of his rage and he loosens his fingers enough that the monkey’s black pupils return to normal size as oxygen returns to its lungs. His pink tongue slides between pointed teeth as he regains enough sense to spit a stream of obscenities at the Tin Man.

John is quick on the uptake this time, though, and grabs Sherlock’s shoulders in order to haul him backwards, breaking the hold that is just about to tighten up again on the monkey’s neck. Moriarty falls to the floor with a thump, the gold crown bouncing off his head and across the room with a flimsy sounding _bing_. The monkey has to lay there for a moment in order to catch his breath. Flat on his back with his wings spread out underneath him at odd angles he appears done in; yet he never takes his eyes off Sherlock.

The Scarecrow may be brainless but he is not stupid. He takes advantage of the monkey’s momentary lapse in attention and moves to where he can plant both feet, one each on the creature’s wings. Jim hisses through his teeth; John fights the urge to either slap the creature across his nasty face or crush the fine bones of the appendage beneath his feet.

“I will ask you once. Why are you here?” Sherlock advances on the monkey, who, for his credit, tries to shrink away from the tall man.

“Irene wanted to make sure it was true.”

“What is true?” Sherlock has bent down now, one knee pressing against Moriarty’s arm, pinning him in place.

“That you and the Scarecrow were reunited.”

Sherlock pulls back, eyes narrowed. He does not move his knee. “Why?” A loaded question, for sure, it could mean _Why are you calling him Scarecrow_ or _Why does Irene care if it’s true_ or even _Why is it important to her that were are reunited?_

Moriarty takes the path of least resistance and ignores the question. His eyes turn towards Molly. She is still standing behind the sofa, her hands nervously twirling the gold crown retrieved from the floor. Toby is sitting on his little haunches on the back of the couch, quietly chattering his discomfort at the flying monkey.

“She wants to make you a deal.” The monkey grumbles through clenched teeth because John has pushed down on its wing; enough pressure for him to feel it, but not yet enough to break any bones.

“Never!” John shouts. Moriarty ignores him, but he does frown so they all know he heard it loud and clear.

“What kind of deal?” Sherlock has to ask.

“Give her the bratty little bitch who killed her sister and she swears you two can ride off into the sunset holding hands and farting out petunias for your beloved Munchkins forever.”

Molly gasps and covers her mouth with one hand. She is unsure as to which thing to be more discouraged about: the intense anger between her new friends and their enemy or the fact that they both seem so willing to hurt Moriarty.

Sherlock does haul back and slap him this time, drawing blood when the monkey’s paper thin top lip is smashed between the back of Sherlock’s metal-infused hand and his own pointy fangs.

The Tin Man stands up to his full height and turns away from the creature. “John, get _that_ out of my sight.”

Sherlock holds out a hand towards Molly, grasping her shoulder, he turns her in the direction of the kitchen. Toby climbs down the couch and scrambles after them.

John hauls the monkey up by the scruff of his neck. “You stink.” Jim hisses and tries to reach back and claw at his captor. John shakes him up a bit then tosses him back out the window. The monkey rolls ass over head to end up in an undignified, panting heap against a small tree. Golden leaves rain down about him.

“Tell your master there will be no deal. If you come back, you are dead.” John’s voice is a cold blade of steel.

In response, Moriarty’s eyes widen, he has not managed to live this long because he is stupid; he knows when to back off and besides, he's gathered enough information to appease the Wicked Witch for the time being, anyway. He shifts back to his feet and spreads his wings then makes his way across the yard at a jog before jumping into the air and disappearing.

John settles himself at the table in the kitchen. Toby climbs up his trouser leg and settles himself in John’s lap. Molly has placed the monkey’s crown in the center of the table where it rests looking more like a cheap piece of costume jewelry, a mockery of anything ever worn by royalty. Sherlock hands Molly a mug of something hot over her shoulder then moves around to stand behind John, one hand on the back of his lover's neck. John only winces slightly from the cold touch.

Sherlock notices the wince; he does not move his palm. The show of solidarity is more important right now than any of the minor discomforts between the two of them. Molly watches closely, allowing their comfort with one another bring her back to earth.

“Molly, we won’t let her hurt you.” John is the first to break the thick mood that has developed. Sherlock nods in the solemn manner he exudes like a skin of armor on the outside of his person.

“You would have every right, though.” Molly sets her mug down on the table then puts her face in her hands.

“Molly, no.” John reaches out to her and grasps her arm. “No. You weren’t in any control when your…well, whatever that twisted hulk of blue metal is out there landed on Imogen.” He gives her a pat. “Listen to me, Molly, you did the world a favor; not to mention you set the Munchkins free, and they have been under her thumb for several generations. You have done a wonderful, good thing.”

Molly looks up at him, tears streaming down her face. She believes everything he tells her. “Alright.” She sniffs.

Toby climbs up John’s soft jumper and out across his arm. The hedgehog takes a moment to stop and hiss at the monkey’s crown, enough so that the Tin Man grabs it and flings it across the room. Toby squeaks then continues into Molly’s line of sight, making her pick him up. She takes a deep breath and says in a small voice, “I just want to go home.”

“And we will get you there. John we need to leave today, as soon as possible. If Irene knows we are here, who knows what she will send our way next.” Sherlock is already striding towards the bedroom, presumably to change into something more travel-worthy.

John stands and hugs Molly around her shoulders before going into the sitting room to retrieve his shoes. With any luck at all, they will be back on the Yellow Brick road before sunset.

*

Part of Molly has enjoyed being at the little cottage, but another part of her is more than happy to be back on the road. She has exchanged Toby’s basket for a brown leather messenger bag scrounged from the house; the satchel gives her a little more space to pack some fruit and bread. For a while, the trio does not talk much as they move along. Sherlock has taken the lead and John stays in stride beside Molly. She certainly is not fool enough to not realize that they are protecting her instinctively, just the way they work as a team.

“John,” she asks some time later, “I think I’ve figured out what Irene meant when she said there are places that she cannot harm me: it’s got something to do with Glinda, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock does not give John time to answer, he stops in his tracks and turns towards them so fast, almost causing Molly to crash into him. Deep in the bag at Molly’s side, Toby gives an indignant squawk. She reaches in and gives him a little pet then looks up at the Tin Man who has crowded quite close into her personal space. He is staring into her eyes then seems to decide he has seen what he needs to because he pulls back and crosses his arms over his chest, an action made all the more dramatic due to the long black coat he returned from the bedroom wearing before they left the cottage. The coat tails swirl majestically about his legs whenever he moves, muffling the metallic melody.

“What did Glinda give you, Molly?”

Molly is taken off guard for a second. “These!” She smiles and holds up one foot at a time to display the silver boots.

Sherlock catches one in his hand and turns it slightly to one side. He nods and lets Molly put her leg down gently. “These belonged to the Wicked Witch of the East?”

“Yes, I believe so. Her legs were, um, sticking out underneath the wreck…” Molly trails off at the look on the Tin Man’s face.

“Go on.” John prods gently. He knows that calculating expression better than anyone else; even underneath everything that has been done to him physically, he is still _Sherlock_.

“Well, you see,” Molly is suddenly nervous without any idea why. A shudder runs down her back when she recognizes the  _familiar_ feeling of this situation. She swallows. “You see, the witch’s legs were sticking out from under the…the wreck. Glinda waved her wand at them and well, the legs sort of rolled up and then she said they now belonged to me. Funny thing is that they actually fit.” Molly holds one foot up and tilts in back and forth, the silver sparkles catching the mid-afternoon sun in a theatrical fashion. She giggles, tickled by Sherlock's close examination of the ridiculous things.

John giggles, too. Sherlock smirks then returns to his place as the leader of the trio. “Well, our question is answered, then. The magic in your kitschy footwear, Miss Hooper," he points. "...rivals that of Irene’s own. You will have to remember to keep wearing them up until the time that the Wizard bids you remove them. They are your protection.”

“Alright, thank you!” Molly smiles.

They walk until it simply grows too dark to continue. When Molly is literally falling asleep on her feet, John calls a halt for her sake. He pulls her to the curb where she sits next to him and promptly drops off against his shoulder, the soft voices of her guardians fusing into a sort of lullaby. She dreams of asking the Tin Man if he has any relatives back in her hometown.

*

When Molly awakens it is to find that she is wrapped in Sherlock’s long coat, her head pillowed by the soft leather bag and a smiling John sitting beside her with Toby brightly staring down at from his perch on John’s shoulder.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Whoever thought someone called a scarecrow could laugh so warmly?

“Morning, John. Thank you.” She gestures towards the coat.

“Ah good, I see you have quite finished with it. May I have it back, please?” Sherlock swoops in as Molly stands and within a half a second has shrugged himself gracefully back into his coat. “Ready?” He inquires.

Molly really has no idea what exactly it is she needs to be ready for, so she simply nods her head.

“Good!” Sherlock strides away, leaving Molly slightly hypnotized by the sway of the material about his legs.

“Hey! That’s mine!” John elbows her in the side. She jumps and starts to apologize, but he is beaming with pride so she understands his little joke. He links his arm through hers and together they follow Sherlock across the road and into a thick copse of purple trees with bright yellow leaves.

Bright orange birds fill the sky with their cheery melodies as they follow a narrow trail that has been worn into the mauve grass by thousands of feet. Molly keeps hold of John’s arm even as it grows thinner. Strange insects and small mammals that could be pink shrews with blue spots scurry underfoot.

Finally, the trees grow thinner and they step out into a clearing that is split in two by a clear-running creek. Sherlock turns to them and holds a finger to his lips, pointing across the stream to the bank on the other side where a four-legged animal stands gazing at them.

Molly almost faints; because what she is seeing she is fairly certain does not exist. She looks at John and the big grin she receives is proof enough that yes, she is looking at a pure white horse-like creature with a long silver horn gracing its forehead. The unicorn’s mane and tail are sea green, its eyes a glowing blue that feels like it is penetrating her heart, even at this distance.

The animal stands and observes them for what feels like an eternity, occasionally dropping its head to snatch at a tuft of plants growing at the edge of the stream. Without warning it whinnies, rears up on its hind legs and gallops away from them, its mane and the feathering at its heels streaming out behind it like a flag. Molly finally tears her eyes away from the now-empty bank and realizes with a start that her face is wet from tears. John is there, too, his arms around her waist as she cries into his chest, feeling like she has just awakened from some sort of disturbing dream that she will never remember. He is strokes her back comfortingly.

“I am so sorry…” Molly offers between sniffles as the tears begin to dry. She thinks she has not cried this much since the time in her life of big secrets. She feels like she has so much to apologize to this man for, but doesn't understand exactly what that means.

“Shhh, Molly it is fine. Lots of people react like that upon seeing him for the first time. He is simply ethereal.” John offers.

“Molly, you have done nothing wrong. Let the heaviness of your heart no longer be a burden to you. It makes you stronger.” Sherlock pets her head once, twice and then suddenly he is gone.

There is a grunt and the sound of a heavy body smacking against the ground. John is pushing her behind him, though over his shoulder she can see where the Tin Man is wiping his mouth from the swipe he has taken from a very large clawed paw.

Between them and Sherlock stands a man just over his height with wide shoulders and a thick, luxurious mane of silver hair. A pair of fuzzy ears adorn either side of his head and when he turns his attention to John, Molly sees a set of long whiskers on his cheeks that fade into a salt and pepper beard down his jaw line. The man’s brown eyes are catlike and open in utter surprise. He looks like he could be dangerous, but there is entirely too much joy in his expression to lend the danger any credibility.

Sherlock regains his equilibrium and claps a broad hand on the man’s shoulder.

“I am glad to see you my friend!” The newcomer booms in a deep, gravely tone that is completely human, holding his hands out wide as if he is going to embrace them all in one huge bear hug. Of course, _bear_ is a bit of a misnomer, Molly reminds herself.

John loses it, laughing so hard that he doubles over, leaving Molly completely unprotected.

“Who?” Molly squeaks out.

John laughs again, so Sherlock answers for him. “Number Four.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6 May 2014, editing complete


	9. Storm on the Rise

“Greg! I know this is a stupid question, but I’ve got to ask: what the hell happened to you?” John asks in between his fruitless efforts at stifling his giggles. Of course, the laughter is absolutely ridiculous, but it is bubbling out as he is released from the fear that something had happened to his friend—a fear John did not even remember he was carrying around. Greg claps John on the shoulder again with a strong reassurance, almost knocking him flat. Sherlock moves fast and grabs John by the waist to stop him from hitting the ground. John recognizes the same look of relief in Greg’s expression that he is sure matches his own.

Greg’s face is something else, though. John studies him closely, taking in the way the bridge of his nose has been thickened, the way his canine teeth have been lengthened, but most surprising of all are the rounded ears that stick up from Greg’s sumptiously thick mane of hair. It seems that his openly good-natured personality is still intact. John snorts with happy laughter again, suddenly feeling the need to release the tension that has plagued his body for far too long: between hanging in the corn field believing his partner dead and now finding out that his other best friend in the world is still alive, it has all been almost too much for him.

“Well, they seem to be nice ears, Greg.” This time, Sherlock steps back and guides John to the ground where he continues to giggle like a teenage girl at a movie premiere where the red carpet is stocked with undiluted and untouchable sexiness of all types and sizes.

“Molly, I do believe my John is broken.” Sherlock whines plaintively in Molly’s direction as he rests both hands on the scarecrow’s shoulders, virtually keeping the smaller man rooted to the spot as he shakes with mirth. Little puffs of what remains of his stuffing cloud around his trembling form.

Molly stifles a giggle of her own behind her hand. “Mister Lion, I do believe you have broken Mister Scarecrow!” She points at John who has hung his head and is still laughing so hard that his entire body is quaking. From the pouch at her side comes an annoyed sqeak.

“Well, now, there young lady, I haven’t the faintest idea why he is laughing like he’s lost his marbles!” Greg holds his hands out away from his athletic body and quirks his silver eyebrows up. He does not question Molly's prescense; as always, whomever finds themself to be in the orbit of one or both of his friends is naturally assumed to automatically be one of his friends, too.

In between gulps of air and trumpeting snorts, John gasps out “It’s because…I _have_ …lost my…fucking…marbles!”

Greg spins around between Molly and John, his long, tufted tail whipping about in feline confusion. He tilts his head and his ears lie back flat against it; the longest whiskers on his face twitch and he raises a large paw-like hand to his face and licks it quite daintily. Greg turns his nose up towards the sky and sniffs loudly. “Rain coming. I have a den not too far from here; if we are still here when it does, just follow me.” His rough pink tongue darts out to lick at the other paw this time.

Molly laughs at the motion that seems so natural that she is sure Greg is unaware that he is even doing it.

“May I?” She asks, holding out a hand and motioning towards Greg’s. He holds it out to her and she turns it over, studying his hairless palm and the long fingers that are webbed with silky, cheetah-hide colored fur. She strokes the back of his paw a couple of times and he makes a soft, growly noise in his throat. “I didn’t think lions could purr.” She tells him. Greg shrugs and gently takes his paw back.

John’s fit of giggles has finally subsided enough that he is breathing properly again. He is sitting on the ground with his back against Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock is still eyeing him cautiously. Molly thinks that he is doing an excellent imitation of rag doll.

“Greg, Irene took John’s brain when she changed him.” Sherlock cocks his head down towards John. His expression has closed up considerably; proof that he is serious now.

The Lion lets out a slow whistle between his teeth. “Aye, she got to me, too. What about you, then?”

“Come closer.” Greg steps nearer and Sherlock holds out his arm. The Lion carefully runs a paw along the offered forearm, feeling the slight slide of the metal beneath his skin. The normal buttermilk paleness of it has changed to almost-transluscent and Greg thinks it is reflecting the sky above them as it begins to darken from cerulean to slate.

“Damn her.” He says quietly, his words almost disappearing on the tail end of a low roll of thunder off in the distance.

“She took my heart.” Sherlock whispers, gazing at the other man with an intensity that begs him not to ask too many questions. Once again, Greg steps away, but this time he narrows his cat’s eyes and really _observes_ his long-lost friends. John is leaning against Sherlock just as relaxed and trusting as always. He knows that Sherlock is as ever unaware of how _his_ posture accommodates John; slightly bent at the waist as if protecting him.

A fine spattering of rain begins to fall, the drops playing a pinging melody on the surface of the stream behind them. Greg holds out an arm towards Molly, effectively calling her to his side. He looks down at John and then back up to Sherlock one more time, shakes his mane and says very clearly, “No she didn’t.”

*****

When Irene is angry she does not raise her voice. Mostly, she _simmers_. Jim stands with his feet apart, his head cocked back as far as it will go in order to look _up_ at the Wicked Witch of the West. His wings hang dejectedly off his shoulders, their bedraggled tips touching the glossy dark green polished marble floor of the corridor. Jim’s normally shiny brown fur is a mess of knots and clumps of mud.

“What happened to you?” Irene asks, her words clipped off between pearly white teeth. She wrinkles her nose. “And I thought you smelled bad enough on a normal day.” Her blue eyes glimmer with anger, throwing the pale green color of her skin into even more of a contrast than normal.

Jim looks down at his feet and shuffles a bit like a little kid about to get into trouble for what he is going to say next, even knowing that it _has_ to be said. “The Tin Man happened.” He mumbles.

“I see.” Irene sniffs daintily again then turns her back on him. She pushes open the door to her study and leaves him standing there, dirty, miserable and cold. He waits with his arms hanging down at his sides, his wings drooping and his entire being at the point of exhaustion not only from being trod upon and thrown, but also from the long flight back to the castle listening to the ravens as they mercilessly teased him about being such an epic failure when they finally caught up with him. He shakes his head, sighs, and decides that her punishments could always be worse.

Behind him, thunder rattles the windows and the wind beats against the old wooden door. Worse is right, at least he is inside where it is dry. Jim remains standing but lets his head sag against his chest and closes his eyes, knowing that being uncomfortable is better than being dead at any rate. Standing in the corridor this way, he is completely unaware of the passage of time.

Suddenly Irene is there in front of him, holding out a shiny red apple. He reaches up and grabs it, hungrily biting into it before he notices the strange look on Irene’s face. Jim stops mid-bite and cocks his head to the side, still holding the apple in both hands. He frowns up at her. “What?”

“Ah, Jim, dear, I have something to show you. Finish your apple now, that’s a good boy.” She spins on her heel and gestures for him to follow. Irene leads him towards the dungeon stairs and opens the door, pointing down the dark, damp rocky staircase. Now it is his turn to react to the stench of mold and mildew; he does not flinch, though, having been kicked down this particular flight of stairs once before when he angered her.

Finally, they reach the last step. Irene mutters a short incantation under her breath and the room is thrown into sharp relief from a light floating near the ceiling. Clustered in a few small groups around the walls are Munchkins aging from about fifteen years old to senior citizens. Jim takes in their ragged appearances and the ankle chains they all wear. When they spot the witch, they collectively attempt to shrink back into the nonexistent shadows.

“Irene, how long have they been down here?” The flying monkey does a quick calculation in his head and remembers that is has been at least two months since he was in the dungeon last.

Irene’s answer is to simply laugh. Jim turns to her slowly and takes a deep breath. “What have you done?”

Irene cackles again. “I have decided to add to my collection. Remember how I told you that you were number three?”

The monkey’s eyes widen in shock. He gazes at her, watching her every movement and finally decides that she is absolutely serious, and possibly absolutely insane, and he would be the one to know. She pats the neat coif on her head and stares down at him in a parody of a patient teacher awaiting an answer from a particularly slow pupil.

“I will need your help, afterwards.” She spins around, her long black skirt swishing around her legs, silver boot buckles catching the light from the ceiling and absorbing it like miniature black holes. Irene reaches down to grasp Jim’s face with one hand and raises her wand high up into the air with the other. The monkey says nothing, though his wings do twitch with nervousness. “I’m going to get them, this time. We only have to stop them before they get near the Emerald City. And this is how I am going to do it.”

Irene shouts out several magic words and the room fills with a buzz and then the screams of bodies being changed from the inside out.

Jim shudders, remembering his own ordeal in crystal clear detail. He attempts to block out the sounds by asking a question. “What will you need me to do?”

The Wicked Witch surveys her handiwork. She kneels down so that her face is inches from Jim’s. He grins wickedly, baring his teeth at her, a completely useless gesture, he knows; then she says something wonderful to him, something so glorious that he stands up straight and his wings snap to their proper place. Suddenly he does not feel so dirty and useless.

“Ah, Jim, every Army needs to be trained before going into battle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6 May 2014: editing done


	10. Siesta in the Snow

The next few days pass by as those do when one is traversing a long and mostly tedious road. Molly is now surrounded by a quartet of unique companions plus Toby the hedgehog; their company makes the trip that much better. Every night she falls asleep exhausted but feeling very well protected.

On the third day after meeting the Lion and spending a stormy night in his den, they pass by a road sign that seems to have pitched itself sideways across their path. It is big enough that it touches both sides of the yellow brick road. If its accuracy can be counted on, they are less than a day away from the Emerald City. This fact fills Molly’s heart with both joy and trepidation. She watches Sherlock as he bends at the waist and retrieves the sign; it takes him only a few seconds to reset it in its former place. Molly does not see the fresh scratches against the yellow metal as she never looks at the sign after reading it the first time; she also never questions the fact that the sign was possibly thrown in their path for a reason. Caught in her mixed feelings of finally being able to get home and leaving her new friends, the four ravens sitting in the tree above it are missed by her, as well. 

Within the hour, the formerly bright sky has darkened, contrasting starkly to the daisy colored sun that still shines upon them, albeit weaker than before. Molly is caught off guard by the sudden appearance of huge pastel yellow, pink, and blue snowflakes as big as dinner plates. They descend slowly from the sky, wandering here and there on the light breeze that has kicked up around them. Molly laughs and holds her hands up high over her head, enjoying the only slightly cooler feel of the flakes against her skin. It is a brilliant cascade of soft color against the weakened afternoon sunlight; a forceful reminder of marshmallow chickens and chocolate eggs. A wave of homesickness threatens to overcome her so she reaches into the basket on her arm and gives Toby’s head a pat in order to resist the feeling. Behind Molly, Greg is carrying the leather satchel because Toby prefers to ride where he can occasionally have a look around; she can hear the quiet sound as he fiddles with the leather straps as he walks.

Sherlock and John are leading the group, both men focusing on the way ahead. Greg spends the time daydreaming as he walks so that when Molly stops to play with the snowflakes, he almost bowls her over. He holds both hands out in front of him, the result being that he only bounces off of her back and then lands on the yellow brick road on his butt, rocking back and forth slightly to cushion the blow where he pinched his tail. 

“Hey now!” Rubbing his hindquarters with one paw, he grumbles then laughs at Molly and himself; it is a deep, booming sound that begins low and ends on a higher note. His brown eyes sparkle with kindness even though his expression is one of irritation.

John spins around, startled, and finds himself laughing at the pair of them. The Lion’s tail is thrashing on the ground and his silver mane is quickly being coated with colorful flakes. He knows it is ridiculous, but he soon finds himself sitting on the ground next to Greg. Without thinking, John reaches down and grabs a small handful of the snow and tosses it up into the air. Some of it lands on Toby’s head, as the little hedgie has stuck his nose out of the basket to see what is happening. The three of them are mumbling nonsense and giggling like five year olds.

Beside the lion and the scarecrow, Molly flops down into a drift. She finds herself laying back to make a snow angel and that is when the sky becomes very interesting. Against the grey-blue expanse is a huge, fluffy cloud of lilac.

“Everything is sooooo beautiful!” She grins and rubs the back of her head into the soft coolness. “Like a feather bed!” Molly cries, laughing all the harder now and kicking her feet which mixes up the snow until some of it is the same color as the cloud overhead.

Flakes are fluttering all around, becoming a soft blanket that is muting every sound; Molly winds up with her head pillowed against Greg’s hip as the lion continues to laugh. One arm covers her shoulders protectively as their eyes begin to droop. John is stretched flat out on the ground beside them, Toby curled into a ball on his belly which is still shaking with barely-suppressed giggles. The hedgehog is already fast asleep and John is swiftly following the others into dream land.

They all look so peacefully blissed out and Sherlock cannot stop the jealous shock that runs through his hatefully stiffening body. Time stands still as he watches his companions succumb to the elegantly soothing spell of the _somnius_ snow. Now he is quite literally frozen to the spot as the temperature around them begins to drop, though in the magic haze of their laughter they have not yet noticed that he is not with them. It is just as well, he thinks, as another one of his joints tighten against the cold. He tries once to open his mouth and call out to them but the spell is working too fast and they have all succumbed. Molly’s silver boots sparkle radiantly beneath the variegated hues of the enchanted snow.

Before long, the pastel colored powder is up to Sherlock’s knees and his friends are nothing more than vaguely human-shaped lumps underneath it. His body will not move but his mind is fast and his eyes are blazing as he keeps his silent, but useless, vigil over them. For the moment, they are safe. Anything that comes for them will have to get through him first, one way or the other.

*

The Wicked Witch cackles maniacally over her crystal ball, intently watching as her favorite nemesis is caught in a stiff pose within the swirling mass of her spell.

“Jim, darling, come here.” Irene calls out to the house in general in her most falsely sincere voice.

Irene does not turn to see where the monkey is; rather she stretches out a long arm and calls him to her by snapping her fingers as soon as she hears the sound of his wings. She waves her fingers over the crystal ball to mute the noise of the _somnius_ storm. Quickly flying to her side, the monkey grasps the offered hand with a hairy paw and perches on the low table beside the coldly glowing sphere. Irene frowns at him and makes a big show out of wiping her hand against the long skirt of her black dress she changed into while she was readying herself to cast the spell.

Jim casts his eyes down towards his toes and does his best to look repentant for touching her; he misses his crown, misses having something to do with his hands in these moments where the witch reminds him he is nothing more than the dirt beneath her feet.

“Nevermind, my pet. Look there.” Irene points; the crystal ball clearly displays all of the traveling companions either incapacitated or asleep. Jim cocks his head to the side and wonders about the irony that if any of them moved a foot in either direction they would be out of the storm. He shrugs his shoulders instead of mentioning Irene’s oversight.

“There he is, my most wretchedly loyal pet. He is yours for the taking.” Irene coos at Jim, stopping just short of patting the monkey on the head.

Jim bares his teeth at her as he makes to jump from the table. Fast as a silver bullet, the wicked witch latches onto the top of one wing with her hand; he struggles for a moment until his eyes lock with hers. He shivers against the coldness there.

“Do not kill him. I need him alive to test the next part of the experiment.” Her irises have been completely swallowed by her pupils and her light green skin is flushed darker on her cheeks. Moriarty nods one more time; when he flaps his wings, Irene lets him go.

“Have fun, dear, you have earned it!” She calls after him, purposely not hearing the insulted snort he lets out as he makes for the nearest open window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6 May 2014: editing done  
> Are you ready?


	11. That's Not Flying--It's Falling, With Style!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey there, sexeee!” Moriarty smacks his lips and bounces on snow that’s drifted right in front of Sherlock, twitching his tail back and forth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaccckkkkkkk!!!

There is almost nothing that Sherlock would not give if he could somehow break the _somnius_ spell and set his friends free. Pain is a dull, barely remembered notion, but somewhere in the region of his chest where his heart used to be the emptiness is suddenly very, very heavy. He breathes in through his nose and tries hard to open his slowly stiffening jaw to breathe out; there is the tiniest squeak of sound as his tongue fights against its prison, but nothing happens.

The Tin Man is stuck fast, his mind alert, his eyes bright and the only thing about him that is able to move. White hot anger is roiling in his mind, soon to be taken over by fear when Moriarty flies into his narrow field of view. Sherlock’s fear, however, is not for himself, but for the others where they lie completely at the mercy of the flying monkey and whatever could possibly be following the witch’s orders.

Jim lands lightly on the soles of his gnarly, twisted feet. The monkey barely leaves an impression in the enchanted snow as he cautiously approaches the Tin Man, tongue clenched in his teeth, pearly white canines framed by thin, almost inflexible lips. It is the _eyes_ , however, that Sherlock detests as much now as he did when Jim was human; black pools of nothing whatsoever—no emotion of any sort whether he is exhilarated or exhausted. He watches Moriarty get closer and wonders idly why Irene chose to change him into something so wickedly abominable.

When Moriarty carefully stops in front of Sherlock, he opens his wings as wide as they will go. Sherlock knows it’s an attempt to be intimidating, though he’s unsure who actually takes it seriously. A short bark of laughter erupts from the monkey’s mouth.

“Hey there, sexeee!” Moriarty smacks his lips and bounces on snow that’s drifted right in front of Sherlock, twitching his tail back and forth. “I’ve got you now and I’m gonna take you on a little ride.” He flaps his wings enough to fly up and land on Sherlock’s shoulder where he leans down to speak into Sherlock’s ear. “She’s going to be so happy with me, maybe she’ll even let me sleep in her _bed_ tonight…bet you wish you were in my place, eh, Sherly Sherly Sherly!”

Moriarty laughs again, his voice a grating sound that echoes around them. “Oh wait! That’s not for the like of you, poor metal man without a heart!” Jim puts his hands over his mouth and widens his eyes. “Oooooo….wonder what else has been made _ice cold_!” He jumps from one shoulder to the other, cackling manically.

The Tin Man’s eyes roll around in their sockets in a desperate attempt to keep an eye on his enemy. Moriarty makes several loud monkey screeches and bobs his head. Within seconds, a huge black cloud of ravens descends from the sky; instead of landing on the snowy ground, however, they land on Sherlock like pigeons on statuary. They give no warning as their stout claws dig into him and clutch skin and clothing and hair alike. He wants nothing more than to scream and fight them as they begin to lift him straight up into the air; just like before, he finds himself defenseless against Irene’s power, even this far from her lair.

*

There is a deep, covert place in the back the mind that is responsible for processing instinct: instinct to protect loved ones, for example. Another would be the instinct to recoil from creatures that are bright red or bright yellow and black patterned. Naturally, the Scarecrow cannot feel this instinct, since the Wicked Witch effectively stole his brain and his mind right along with it.

Something stirs in John’s chest right then, however; some remnant of ancient times that forces him from his enchanted slumber to fully awake within seconds of Moriarty calling down his minions from on high. It is a struggle for him, though, and Sherlock is almost airborne before he can react to the situation.

“No!” The Scarecrow shouts as he pushes against the spell with his entire being. He shakes his head against the fog still remaining and reaches over to Greg and begins to push at him, hoping beyond hope that there is something they can do.

Greg returns to his senses slightly faster than John. He rubs his eyes and blinks up at the large shape above them being carried by the ravens. “Fuck is that?”

John starts to answer, but just then Molly joins them.

“Sherlock?” She asks, trying hard to get her wits about her. Immediately realization hits and she covers her mouth with her hands.

John runs as fast as he is able in the direction that Sherlock is being carried. As he hits a dry patch of road, he stops short. There is no snow here. Beside him, Greg is panting hard and gasping for breath, obviously still fighting the _somnius_ effects that dragged them down in the first place.

“Sherlock!” John calls at the top of his lungs. Molly has stopped a few paces behind and is scooping up rocks from a tiny pile on the road where the yellow bricks meet grass and dirt. She draws back her arm and takes aim at the wretched creature known as Jim Moriarty.

*

Sherlock can hear John as clearly as he can the winged monkey perched on his shoulder. He’s got to get out of this before the ravens get him too close to Irene’s castle, but he is one hundred percent certain that is exactly why she sent her lackeys to get him. There is no doubt that she’s behind the _somnius_ snow as well.

The Tin Man notices that the farther the birds carry him, the warmer the temperature of the air seems to be. He does his best to look towards the ground just as John calls out to him. The very idea of leaving John again fills him with both anger and grief. A single tear forms at the corner of his eye and rolls slowly down his cheek, leaving a crystal clear path on his skin.

Sherlock recognizes the reaction of the salt in that single tear with the light dusting of ice covering his face. His mind turns from despair to invention as he forces himself to think of the worst days of his life. Among them, being torn from John’s side and imprisoned in this half-skin, half-metal cage is the topmost. More tears fall from his eyes. There is enough now that his jaw begins to loosen up, yet he says nothing. Somehow he manages to keep weeping silently, only now giving into the pent-up emotions he tried valiantly to ignore until now.

“John!” He shouts triumphantly. “Chase them!” Still riding on Sherlock’s shoulder, Moriarty turns around to him and finds Sherlock’s skin tinged faintly pink from the warmth of his tears. He slaps one hand over the Tin Man’s mouth, but he is too late.

Below Sherlock’s stiff form, Greg and John can be seen running towards them. Moriarty hisses angrily then jumps up and down on his perch. The twisted smile he has been wearing since he decided that he had the Tin Man in his grasp is wiped off his face when a rock bounces off of his forehead. He reaches up with his fingers to poke at the injury. A second rock throws him completely off balance and when it is followed by a third one, he falls from Sherlock’s shoulder and effectively dissolves the spell put on the birds that compel them to obey him.

All of the ravens let go simultaneously and Sherlock, still partially frozen, falls fast toward the ground.


End file.
